


listen closely and the stars will sing

by swansaloft



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Christmas, F/F, Mistletoe, Neighbor au, Romance, SQ Supernova, Stargazing, Swan Queen Supernova, Swan-Mills Family, The Fluffiest Fluff Ever To Fluff, this author is an unashamed christmas elf and it shows, two idiots staring at the sky instead of at each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:36:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8762572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swansaloft/pseuds/swansaloft
Summary: If tiny fourth grade Emma had gone in to see the fortune teller, and the woman had told her that when she was 27 years old, she would fall head over heels in love with Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, she would have laughed herself right out of the tent.The thing is, the woman would've been correct.Well, mostly.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Thank you so, so much to so many people! To the super awesome hosts who made SQ Supernova a thing, to Aimee for the word wars, and to Lauren for being my amazing artist! Check her out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abatnoir/works) and her lovely cover art [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8770750).
> 
> Now, a couple quick fic things:
> 
> 1) If you need a visual for what their duplex looks like, I loosely based it on [this](https://www.houseplans.pro/assets/plans/460/duplex-532-render-house-plans.jpg) layout.
> 
> 2) Henry is Regina's biological child in this fic.

In the fourth grade, a little redheaded girl named Noel unexpectedly befriended the reticent but adorable Emma Swan.

 

A few weeks into their brief but sincere friendship, Noel invited Emma to go to a renaissance faire with her family. Now, Emma did not really know what to expect when she agreed, and when the day came, she really wasn't impressed by the terrible accents and constant cigarette smoke. But she _did_ like to look at the pretty dresses and jewelry.

 

However, when Noel insisted on going to see a fortune teller, Emma refused to step foot beyond the bedazzled curtains, her reasons being as follows: a) The woman kind of freaked Emma out, with her caked-on makeup and her too-intense stare. b) She didn’t put much stock in people who claimed to be able to see the future. If no one could even answer her questions about her past, how could anyone claim to see details about things that hadn’t even happened yet?

 

But if tiny fourth grade Emma _had_ gone in to see the fortune teller, and the woman _had_ told her that when she was 27 years old, she would fall head over heels in love with Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, she would have laughed herself right out of the tent, and her contemptuous disbelief in the whole business would have been solidified.

 

The thing is, the woman would’ve been correct.

 

Well, mostly.

 

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

 

It doesn’t actually start with a reindeer. In fact, it starts a few months before Rudolph will make an appearance even in the homes of the most devout Christmas elves. It starts one late-July day when it’s hot as balls and Emma’s regretting her decision to move into her new duplex in broad daylight. She should have had the common sense to wait until after sunset like a logical human being. But then, logic has never been her strong suit.

 

She’s been out of the Navy for three years now, and her new promotion at work means she can finally move out of her shitty apartment and into a duplex on the nicer side of town without having to subsist entirely on ramen and hot dogs. Admittedly, she’s still sharing with a roommate, but Mulan is away more often than not, and having another person sleeping in the house for two nights a week is a terrific price to pay for splitting the monthly payment in half.

 

She just hopes she winds up with nice neighbors. But not, like, the obnoxious kind of nice where they ambush you with casseroles and endless gossip the second you step foot outside your door. But the kind of nice where you share a cordial nod from afar if you happen to cross paths in the driveway.

 

She has yet to spot any of her new neighbors, thankfully, as she’s dressed in a white tank top, old cargo pants, and ratty tennis shoes, and Mulan is similarly attired. They’re struggling to finagle the couch in a way that will get it through the entryway when Emma sees her, and she nearly drops the couch on her toes.

 

The woman steps out of the door on the other side of the duplex, speaking sharply into the phone pressed to her ear. She's dressed in a crisp charcoal pantsuit, black hair cut short into a sleek, layered bob.

 

Emma doesn’t get a chance to catch many more details, but the woman just has this air of _get the fuck out of my way, or I will move you with my sheer force of will_ going for her. Emma has no doubt that it is effective. The part of her that isn't staring like a lovestruck teenager wants to run and hide, and she isn't even the poor individual stuck on the other end of that phone call. Speaking of staring, she should probably cease and desist before the woman looks up. God knows Emma could stand to actually be on good terms with her neighbors. Plus, she probably looks something akin to a train wreck meeting a tsunami.

 

Mulan clears her throat, and Emma blinks out of her haze and meets her gaze.

 

“Any day now, Barb.”

 

Mulan only brings out that nickname when she's particularly annoyed, but Emma can't really blame her. This couch is _really_ heavy.

 

“Yeah, sorry,” she replies, shifting her grip. It takes a few more seconds of adjusting, but finally, they hit just the right angle, and the couch slides in without further issue.

 

Emma backs in along with the couch, and by the time she emerges again, the woman is gone, along with the black Mercedes that had been parked in the driveway.

 

Emma doesn’t see her again for three days.

 

\--

 

When Emma opens the door at ten o'clock Saturday morning, she is fully expecting it to be the cable guy.

 

It isn't.

 

Not unless the cable guy is a) female, and b) bears a remarkable resemblance to the walking vision in high heels Emma couldn't keep her eyes off of the other day.

 

Also not unless the cable company has started sending their representatives out with Tupperware full of freshly baked goodies as welcome gifts to their new customers. (She's 100% recommending that on one of their comment cards when they _do_ show up, though.)

 

All this flashes through her mind in the space of a second or two. Not too long to be considered rude, but just long enough that it's a little awkward when she greets the woman with nothing but a simple, “Hi.”

 

_Smooth, Emma._

 

“Hello.” The woman smiles, warm but still slightly distant. “I'm Regina Mills, your neighbor. I wanted to drop by and offer you some apple turnovers as a housewarming gift,” she says, extending the container, and Emma takes it, her mouth already watering in anticipation.

 

Of the food.

 

Obviously.

 

“Hey,” Emma returns, balancing the turnovers in one hand and extending the other. “I'm Emma Swan. And I like to eat, so thanks.”

 

Regina takes her hand and gives it a brief but firm shake, an art she has clearly perfected. Not that Emma's surprised. Everything about her screams “proficient businesswoman.”

 

Even today when she's ostensibly in “casual at-home” mode, she's dressed in grey slacks and a simple three-quarter sleeve plum button-down.

 

“You're very welcome.”

 

A beat passes, and there's a slightly awkward pause where Emma isn't quite sure what to say. She isn't used to living in neighborhoods where this is actually a _thing_. Her neighbors in her old post-base apartment complex demonstrated their welcome by refraining from urinating on her doorstep.

 

“Thought you were the cable guy, or I would've, um. Put on shoes or something.” She winces internally and rubs the back of her neck. What exactly is the protocol in this situation? Does she invite the woman in for tea? Does she even _own_ tea? She's got water and booze, and there's that whole slightly-socially-unacceptable thing when it comes to offering alcohol before it's even noon.

 

Regina smiles in this way that Emma can't quite decipher, but she thinks it either means that she is more amused than she is trying to let on, or that she is completely repulsed by Emma's lack of social graces and is only moving her lips because Emily Post says she should.

 

It's a toss-up, really.

 

“That's alright. Unpacking is always stressful. It takes a while to get settled in.”

 

“Right.”

 

“Well, I should be heading back. But before I do, I wanted to mention a few things.” Her posture and expression shift as she pulls out the small black folder from underneath her left arm, and suddenly she bears an even stronger resemblance to her Suit Persona of the other day. “I'm also here on behalf of the Neighborhood Association. These are the rules and regulations you'll be expected to follow as a resident of Storybrooke Estates.”

 

She hands over the folder, and Emma grabs it, quickly scanning over the first sheet of paper. “Um, yeah, I think Mulan and I signed this already?”

 

“Yes, you would have. As a board member and a neighbor, though, I find it is helpful to hand out another copy for easy reference. Most of the rules will probably not impact your day-to-day life in any measurable way. However, of primary concern are the noise regulations, which are strictly enforced. No loud noises between the hours of 11 PM and 6 AM. Midnight to 7 AM on the weekends. I have a son, and I expect him to be able to get a full night's rest every night.”

 

Emma blinks in surprise, letting her gaze fall to the woman's (bare) left hand. It only takes a flash, but she can tell by the tightening of the other woman's expression that she'd noticed Emma's observation and had misjudged it entirely.

 

Emma wants to protest, but she isn't sure exactly how well, “Not judging you; just hoping you're not married, because I'd like to hit on you the next time you aren't lecturing me,” would go over.

 

Probably with all the success of a lead balloon.

 

Great. Her first decent – and really, really gorgeous - neighbor, and she's already messed it up.

 

“Of course. I'm sure we won't have any problems.” She tries offering a weak smile, but the brunette's face is a mask.

 

“Good. Well, it's-” Regina starts, but before she can finish the sentence, a small boy flies out of the door across the driveway.

 

“Mom! You were supposed to wait for me!”

 

“Don't run, Henry,” she says mildly, to no observable effect, and the boy – ostensibly Henry – skids to a stop when he reaches them. “Say hello to our new neighbor, Ms. Swan.”

 

The boy turns to Emma and offers a giant grin that shows off his slightly imperfect teeth.

 

“Hi, I'm Henry. I helped bake your turnovers,” he continues by way of introduction, holding out his hand.

 

Emma can't help but grin. “Hi, Henry, it's nice to meet you. You can call me Emma. And thanks for the turnovers! I was just about to tell you mom how amazing they smelled.”

 

The brunette lifts a subtle eyebrow at that, but Emma doesn't meet her gaze. The turnovers _do_ smell delicious – even if they are basically a You'd Better Be Neighborly Or Else threat wrapped in a sweet, cinnamony package.

 

“Do you live here all by yourself, Emma?” the kid asks, in that way kids do, where they couldn't care less if you'd rather do anything else but sit and answer their questions all day

 

“Nope. I have a roommate. Her name's Mulan.”

 

He tilts his head to the side. “Like the cartoon?”

 

“Yeah. She's a pilot, so she's off flying a lot of the time. But I'm sure you'll get to meet her sometime. She's pretty awesome.”

 

And it's true. Mulan really is the best roommate ever. She's gone a lot of the time and sleeps for most of the rest of it. She alternates her free time between playing Lara Croft in her room, going to the gym, and hanging out with her best friend Belle, who is married to some gross older guy Mulan hates.

 

“Oh, cool! Are you a pilot, too?”

 

“Nope, I just work on the airplanes. The really big ones, mostly.”

 

“Huh. That's pretty awesome, too.”

 

“Well, I like it.”

 

There's another uncomfortable silence that has Emma shifting back like she's about to bid them good day and get back to her cereal, which is probably disgustingly soggy by now. But clearly the kid isn't up on his social cues, because when she moves to the side, he seems to see something behind her and starts vibrating with energy like someone straight off a Red Bull commercial.

 

“Do you play the guitar? I _love_ the guitar.”

 

Ah. So that's what he'd seen.

 

“Um, yep.”

 

“Are you good?”

 

“I am. Not as great as I was once, but-”

 

“That's _awesome_! Can you teach me?”

 

“Henry!” his mom grabs his hand, and he looks up at her. “You don't go around asking questions like that. It's rude.” She turns her gaze to Emma. “Sorry. You don't need to answer him.”

 

“It's okay.” She lets her gaze fall to Henry. “I don't really give lessons, kid. Sorry.”

 

“Besides, Henry, you already have a guitar teacher,” Regina chimes in.

 

The boys scowls. “I hate her. She's mean. She only lets me play the boring songs.”

 

“Sweetheart, that's because-”

 

“And she always yells at me when I say anything in Spanish. She says English is better and that I shouldn't speak so much Spanish, or I'll get an accent and people will think I'm from Mexico.”

 

Regina goes deadly calm all at once. “You didn't tell me that.”

 

Henry shrugs. “She said it yesterday. You were busy with work, and then I forgot.”

 

“Well, Ms. Blue and I will be having a conversation, and then we'll find you a new teacher.”

 

“Yep! Emma.”

 

“Henry-”

 

“But I like Emma.”

 

“You only just met her.”

 

He turns to Emma. “I have a sense for these things,” he says sagely, and Emma wants to laugh, but she seals her lips together and gives him a solemn nod instead.

 

Regina turns to her. “I apologize, Ms. Swan. It seems my son and I have some things to discuss, but it was lovely to meet you.”

 

“You, too.”

 

“Bye, Emma!”

 

“Bye, Henry.”

 

Through her closed door, Emma hears Regina's admonishing tone as it fades away. “Henry, you don't just go around asking strangers to be your teacher.” She switches to Spanish, which Emma doesn't understand, and then her voice fades away entirely.

 

Two weeks, a few frantic Googling sessions, and one trip to the local music store later, Emma is giving her first guitar lesson.

 

-

 

Okay, so there's a _bit_ more involved than that. Regina interviews her and makes her fill out one of those forms for a legit background check, though she does offer to foot the bill herself. When the results come back, she makes an appointment with Emma to discuss details.

 

They decide on a schedule of Monday and Thursday evenings, because Henry has Chess Club on Wednesdays.

 

“What do you charge?” Regina asks, and Emma shrugs.

 

“Honestly? No idea. Do you mind telling me how much you were paying his last teacher?”

 

Regina names a sum, and Emma's eyes nearly bulge out of her head.

 

“How about half that, since I have no idea what the hell I'm doing?”

 

“If you don't want to do this, Ms. Swan, just say so. I certainly won't force you.”

 

“No, I like the little guy. I don't want to disappoint him. But I just don't want you to have super high expectations, like he's going to be the next Van Halen or whatever.”

 

Regina snorts. “Hardly. Though I do expect him to make _some_ progress.”

 

“I really will try. I've gotten books and everything. And I'm pretty good; I've just never done the teaching thing before. I'm surprised you're even letting me near him.”

 

“Is there any reason I shouldn't?”

 

Regina stares at her expectantly.

 

“I just meant...you seem like kind of a perfectionist? Not in a bad way, but like you would want the best, and I'm, well, not.”

 

Regina nods. “True. But I also want what makes my son happy, when possible. And he wants you. For some reason.”

 

This last part shouldn't sting, since Emma's said this exact same thing before, but it still kind of does. She shrugs it off and then realizes that now is her perfect opening for The Thing she's been meaning to mention. Emma reaches up and rubs the back of her neck and blurts it out.

 

“And, um. Speaking of things you should know? There's no good way to bring this up, but I did do a little time in juvie for theft. I didn't even do it, but I'd decided to hook up with the wrong boyfriend, and he thought I'd deal with doing time better than he would, so-” She breaks off, Regina's approving nod not at all the reaction she'd been expecting.

 

“You...don't have a problem with that?”

 

“We can hardly judge everyone based on their past. And I already knew about it. I was waiting to see if you would share the information with me.”

 

“I don't really hide it; it just isn't the first thing you bring up at parties, you kn- wait. Those are _sealed_ records.”

 

“Yes, well. I have my ways,” she says vaguely, in a way that reminds Emma of just how much power this woman is accustomed to wielding. She still doesn't know what the hell it is Regina does, exactly, but she knows it's clearly important. _“_ It was a test, Ms. Swan, and you passed it. _”_

 

“Great. I'm surprised you went through the trouble of having an official check done, if you could just call your super secret connections and look things up.”

 

“I prefer to do things by the book. But if certain... _enhancements_ are necessary, I do not hesitate, especially if it involves my son.” She leans forward, holding Emma's eyes with a fierce gaze. “He is the most important thing in my life. I take his safety extremely seriously.”

 

“Good. You should,” Emma says, and she thinks of all the kids with shitty mothers she'd met while in the system, mothers who'd never even cared enough to go through anywhere near this much trouble. And she wants to compliment Regina, wants to tell her how wonderful she is. But that would be hella weird, given that they're barely more than strangers. Still, the intensity with which she made the remark hangs in the air, weighting the silence awkwardly, and Regina seems to realize a change of mood is necessary. Regina shifts back in her chair, adopting a more relaxed posture.

 

“I'll just make sure to put an extra lock on the door if you come home one night looking particularly burglaresque.”

 

Emma snorts. “Yeah, 'cause I've never picked one of _those_ before.”

 

Regina just stares at her for a moment, and Emma realizes that _maybe_ that wasn't the best choice of things to say at the moment and hurries on, “I mean, not that I _would_ , and it's obviously been a long time-”

 

But she stops when Regina waves a hand, looking rather too amused for someone whose house she just practically threatened to break into.

 

“Not to worry, Ms. Swan. I appreciate your candor.” She quirks a brow. “Though I _would_ prefer that you refrain from practicing your rusty lock-picking skills on my residence.”

 

“Of course.” She pauses. “If anyone, it'd be that jackass Leo across the street. Bring along a nice brainwashing device and make him unlearn every bad pickup line he's ever heard.”

 

A second passes and then something beautiful happens.

 

Regina Mills laughs at her joke.

 

Yeah. It's pretty awesome.

 

-

 

Emma is not particularly good with kids.

 

It isn't that she's _bad_ with kids. Not...exactly. It's more just that she doesn't really have any experience with them. Sometimes there were kids hanging out when she was stationed at a naval base, but she never really sought them out. Like, she'd kick a soccer ball around with a kid or two if the opportunity presented itself, but she's never really done the whole let's-bond-and-do-crafts thing or whatever.

 

So Emma is nervous.

 

She is probably more nervous because Henry isn't just Henry – he's Henry accompanied by his (possibly?) single mom who is a little scary but has an incredible smile and an even more incredible laugh, and just that thought makes Emma screw up her tuning, and she has to twist the knob to get her string to pluck just the right note.

 

She had to pick up a tuner from the music store, because she's always just had an ear for it, but she should probably teach the kid the real way. So she finagles it out of the packaging and presses buttons until she figures out how it works.

 

A glance at her watch tells her it's only two minutes until Henry will be arriving, and she'll bet anything that his mother will be knocking at the top of the hour on the very dot.

 

Emma takes one glance at her surroundings, the living room clear of all the moving clutter except two remaining boxes pushed into the far corner. She has her leather sofa and Mulan's barcalounger, and both are currently covered in various sheet music and instruction books. She gathers those into a neat pile and takes a deep breath.

 

Sure enough, a knock sounds, and a glance at her watch tells her it's straight up five o'clock.

 

Emma opens the door to a bouncy ball of energy named Henry, carrying a guitar case that is nearly as large as he is.

 

“Emma!” Henry greets, bouncing on his toes.

 

“Henry!” Emma returns, stepping aside to let them in.

 

Henry sets his guitar down in the middle of the living room. Regina ensures everything is set, promises to return for Henry at six, then leaves them to it.

 

Henry waits until the door is shut, then turns immediately to Emma, so quickly Emma is briefly concerned about whiplash.

 

“So, what're we gonna learn first?”

 

“Well, first, let's see where you are now, so we can see how much we need to do and what to work on. Just show me some of the chords you've learned, or a song, if you know one.”

 

Forty-five minutes later, Emma is glad she perfected her give-nothing-away mask years ago, because Henry is...well, awful, basically.

 

He tries to play a song and has to pause and reform his fingers between chords, and he takes a while to remember which is which when she's naming them off. And yes, it's what she had expected, because she knows he's a beginner. She just wasn't quite sure how far his previous teacher had gotten. Clearly not far.

 

But she smiles encouragingly after he finishes faltering through his second song he knows – Twinkle Twinkle Little Star – and claps.

 

“You don't have to patronize me, Emma. I know that was terrible.”

 

“I wasn't patronizing you. And how do you even know what that means?”

 

“I'm a kid, but I'm not dumb. Mom is really big on vocabulary. Besides, I love lots of languages. Someday I might learn three or four and be one of those cool interpreters who works with presidents and stuff.”

 

“That's a great idea! You already know two, so you're probably off to a good start. And back to the song, yeah, maybe it wasn't perfect, but you're also a beginner _and_ you haven't had a practice session in a few weeks. Even the greats get rusty if they don't practice.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Oh, yeah. You should've heard me after I'd been away at an outpost. When I got back to base, _ouch_. I stank the place up. My poor bunkmates are probably still cringing.”

 

Henry giggles.

 

“Next time we'll start working on transitioning, okay? It's important to be able to switch quickly between chords.”

 

Emma doesn't actually know if that's what the book suggests she teaches next. She left it on the other end of the couch, and she kind of panicked and started talking before she could remember what it said. But Henry doesn't seem to notice anything's amiss, because as far as he's concerned, she's the master. And she can't set him too far back with a skill that's going to wind up coming in handy, right?

 

Six o'clock arrives with the sound of a knock at the door, and Emma stands to answer it while Henry packs up his guitar.

 

“Hey, Regina.”

 

“Ms. Swan,” she says with a cordial smile. “I've come to collect my son. I trust you have instilled him with plenty of new musical knowledge?”

 

“Well, we spent most of today kind of touching base about what he already knows and then just kind of messed around a little, got comfortable with it again. He hasn't been practicing since the last session with the nun?”

 

Regina's lips thin at the mention of the other woman. “No, not to my knowledge.”

 

“If he wants to improve, he's going to have to practice at least a couple times a week outside of our sessions.”

 

“You should be telling Henry this. He is responsible.”

 

“Already did. Just telling you in case it needs reinforcing.”

 

“Oh. Well, thank you. He _is_ still young, so...”

 

“Hey! I'm almost 10, you know,” Henry says, popping up around Emma's right elbow. “Practically a teenager. I can drive in like five years.”

 

“ _Ay, dios mio_ ,” Regina mumbles. “Not if I can help it.” But her words are softened by the way she ruffles his hair and smiles affectionately.

 

Henry pretends to scowl, and he grabs her hand off the top of his head and drags it to his mouth and gives it a loud kiss, while he straightens his hair out with his other hand.

 

“We should be going, Henry. It's time for dinner, and we're wasting all of Ms. Swan's cool air.”

 

With that, they leave, and Emma watches them walk away, Regina's crisp steps and Henry's lopsided ones as he lugs his guitar case along. They're like a damn Hallmark commercial, and it should annoy her, but instead, she finds herself smiling as she shuts the door.

 

-

 

Exactly two weeks later, she's standing in that same doorway with Regina, waiting for Henry to finish packing his guitar away in his case. It's all going well, and she should really just make an innocuous comment about Henry's guitar playing and bid them good night.

 

Instead, Emma says a really stupid thing.

 

To be fair, it doesn't _seem_ like a stupid thing at the time. Just a random thought that pops into her head. So she says it, hoping it will prompt a conversation, because she likes talking to Regina, despite the fact that it is sometimes like hitting her head against a very polite (not to mention pretty, forceful, protective, and occasionally scary) brick wall.

 

Which is possibly a sign of early onset insanity of some type, but hey. She's never pretended to have made all quality choices in her life.

 

If so, juvie at seventeen probably wouldn't have been a thing.

 

“How come you pick him up after every session?”

 

Regina turns to glance at her.

 

“He's my son.”

 

“He's also almost 10 years old, and your door is literally twenty feet away. We live in the same structure.”

 

Regina ponders for a moment before she answers. “I suppose it's a habit. He always used to talk to me about what they'd gone over in his lesson when I picked him up from his _previous_ teacher.”

 

“I wouldn't think you'd cover much crossing the driveway.”

 

“No, we don't. Perhaps you're right.”

 

And that is how Emma accidentally talks herself out of her biweekly Regina fix.

 

 _Idiot_.

 

-

 

The thing is, though, Regina doesn't stop coming.

 

True, she doesn't show up for a week, and Emma is strangely disappointed every time she opens the door to see just Henry standing on her doorstep, or when he heads home alone after the lesson.

 

But the next week she's back again.

 

“I missed the routine, I suppose,” she says, but something in the way she smiles and holds Emma's eyes for a long moment makes Emma's insides do a happy dance.

 

-

 

The first week of September rolls into the second, and _finally_ , the unseasonable heat begins to dissipate.

 

One of Emma's favorite things is to watch the stars at night. It's something she started years ago, something she could always do, no matter which crummy house or apartment she was staying in. The sky was there. It might be obscured by smog or lights or clouds, but it was always there and open and she could imagine floating far, far away.

 

She still sleeps best in rooms that have windows, even though now the sky isn't so much a promise of potential escape, but a reminder that something remains constant even while it is ever shifting. She finds it relaxing.

 

The thing is, though, she can never fully relax and enjoy stargazing during the hot, stagnant nights of summer. The humidity ruins everything. Plus, she's been spending a lot of her recent evenings unpacking and studying up on her guitar technique.

 

But tonight is the perfect weather, and she's going to do it.

 

So she grabs a beer and drags her folding camping chair out onto the back deck, only to draw to a sharp halt.

 

There's already someone else out here.

 

One strange thing about this house is that the two back decks aren't separate. Rather, there is one large deck with a high breakfast bar running down most of the middle and a small latching gate at the end, and together they separate the east half from the west half. When Emma had moved in, she hadn't really minded. In fact, she'd thought it seemed like kind of a fun set-up, great if they ever decided to host a party (which is a hilarious thought, since she and Mulan aren't exactly a pair of raving extroverts).

 

Now she resents it, because her regular alone time isn't exactly going to be alone tonight.

 

But on the other hand...it's Regina.

 

And, well, in Emma's (sadly) limited experience, Regina is many things, but chatty, she is not.

 

She pauses in the doorway, unsure of whether or not she wants to go out and intrude on the _other_ woman's alone time – heaven knows Emma doesn't want to get on her bad side.

 

But before she can decide, Regina twists in place, seemingly sensing that Emma's been staring at her while she decides.

 

“Mind if I intrude?” Emma asks.

 

“Go right ahead. Just don't expect much conversation.”

 

“I don't. This is normally my alone time, so...”

 

“Good. Mine, too. I'm tired of insipid people and their constant idiocy.”

 

“Present company excluded, of course,” Emma says, and she can't tell for sure, but she thinks Regina smirks into her wine glass.

 

“But of course.” Regina holds up her glass toward Emma in a long-distance toast. “To silence and solitude.”

 

“Silence and solitude,” Emma echoes, and she downs a sip of her beer.

 

-

 

After half an hour of silence, they wind up talking for a few minutes before they go inside. It isn't anything earth-shattering, just general small talk.

 

But she gets the feeling that Regina doesn't engage with people she doesn't want to.

 

And that thought?

 

Well, that makes her veins buzz in a way she can't quite blame on alcohol.

 

-

 

“I need to tell you something,” Henry says a couple weeks later. They're in the middle of their lesson, and he sounds incredibly serious, and Emma is suddenly sure he's about to tell her he's decided to quit guitar.

 

She isn't quite sure why she's suddenly flooded with disappointment when she still barely knows what the hell she's doing with this teaching thing anyway.

 

“Okay. Shoot,” she says, going for nonchalance.

 

“I want to learn a Christmas song for my mom for her present this year.”

 

“Well, I don't know a lot of Christmas songs, but I'm sure we can manage something.”

 

“In Spanish.”

 

“Um. Kid, I don't know _any_ Spanish.” _At least, not any that I can teach you without your mother threatening my life_.

 

“That's okay. I do. You'd just need to teach me the music part!”

 

“Did you have a particular song in mind?”

 

“ _Noche de Paz_.”

 

“Which one's that? I don't- oh wait! _Noche_ is night. Right?”

 

Henry has one of those moments when she can _totally_ tell he is Regina's kid because he is looking all amused and way too superior for an almost-ten-year-old talking to an adult.

 

“Yes. It really means Night of Peace, but it's the Spanish version of 'Silent Night,' basically. I know all the words already, since it's on Mom's favorite CD of _villancicos._ ”

 

“I'm sure she'll love it. I can have the chords ready for us by Monday, okay?”

 

“Awesome. This is really important, okay? That's why I told you so early. I want to have time to learn it _perfectly_.”

 

And she doesn't doubt him, because the kid is kind of a scary perfectionist.

 

“Hey, we'll get it. Don't worry.”

 

And he smiles, and just like that he's back to talking about the fact that he wants to be the next big guitarist like Angus Van Santana, and Emma doesn't have the heart to break it to him that isn't a real person and he's just seen Spy Kids 2 too many times.

 

-

 

Emma is all prepared with chords for “ _Noche de Paz_ ” by the time Henry arrives for his next lesson on Monday.

 

Predictably, Henry is excited and doesn't want to work on anything else the entire day.

 

Emma continues to be relieved he doesn't show any signs of wanting to quit the guitar. And not just because of her irritatingly unflagging crush on his mother. Sure, he's probably more than a little bit spoiled, and he's a tad bit annoying on occasion, but he's a _kid._ it's to be expected. Even with all of that, she really thinks she'd miss the little guy if he stopped coming over for their lessons.

 

Weird.

 

-

 

“Can I ask you a candid question?”

 

They're outside together again, the second time in a week. This time, the silence only lasts a few minutes before Emma breaks it.

 

Regina answers without looking her way.

 

“You may.”

 

“Why do you stay here? You've got the suits and the car. I'm guessing you could live somewhere you wouldn't have to share a deck with your nosy neighbor.”

 

“Technically, this isn't a duplex. It's a semi-detached residence.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

Regina hasn't answered her question, and Emma is deciding whether to ask again or to let it drop, when Regina suddenly solves her dilemma.

 

“Because I love this house. And because my mother hates it.”

 

Emma is so startled, she lets out a bark of laughter. “Really? I don't see you as the 'Screw you, Mom' acting out type.”

 

The hint of a grin deepens into a smirk. “That, Ms. Swan, is because you don't really know me.”

 

“Starting to think I'd like to, though,” Emma says, and she flushes under the starlight, because she is dangerously close to flirting with Regina Mills. And because she's telling the truth.

 

Regina shrugs, taking another sip of her tea. “There isn't much to know. I grew up in a mansion. Hated it. Married my high school sweetheart when I was very young. My parents didn't approve. We moved to this neighborhood because he'd grown up here and loved it. After he died, I couldn't face the idea of having that whole house to myself, small as it was. This division had just been built, the buildings were nice, still very close to where I knew I wanted Henry to go to school when he was old enough. So I moved. And I haven't seen a reason to move again. The fact that my mother hates it is just a bonus.”

 

“So I guess I read you wrong: You're _totally_ the 'Screw you' acting out type.”

 

Regina snorts. “Trust me, if you'd had my mother, you would be, too.”

 

And this is the perfect opening for Emma to give the brief rundown of her sob story, too, the abandonment, lack of parents, being shuffled to and from so many residences she couldn't begin to count them. So she does, keeping light on the details, trying to condense her story into just a few concise sentences.

 

“Well, aren't we a pair,” Regina says when she's finished, like she knows that Emma can't stand people who try to fix her past with a deluge of pity and condolences.

 

“That we are.”

 

-

 

September becomes October, and soon enough, Emma has to start wearing a jacket or throw blanket around her shoulders if she's going to be outside more than a minute or two.

 

And, well.

 

If Regina is there, that's pretty much a guarantee. Two to three nights a week, they wind up sitting together on the deck, watching the stars. Some nights, they are completely silent, and others, they might share random facts or stories. Whatever pops into their heads.

 

“I hate ' _Feliz Navidad_.'” Regina says out of the blue one night, and Emma balks.

 

“How can you hate that song? It's so catchy!”

 

“Exactly. And overplayed no matter what country I'm in. Every year, it gets stuck in my head from Thanksgiving to Christmas, and it drives me crazy.”

 

“So, on the list of Songs I Should Serenade You With...”

 

Regina sends her a death glare, and Emma holds up a hand. “Kidding. I can't sing worth a damn anyway.”

 

Regina frowns. “Really? Aren't all guitarists supposed to be able to sing?”

 

“Well, this one can't. I only sing when I'm very, very drunk, and then it's Frank Sinatra, and I can't even play any Sinatra on the guitar.”

 

“You're a veritable mystery, Ms. Swan.”

 

“Thank you, Regina.”

 

-

 

Mulan's finally home on a night when she isn't comatose and doesn't have any plans with Belle, and she pops into Emma's room with the Blu-ray of Edge of Tomorrow clutched in her hands. Which _hello_ , not fair, because she knows Emma can't resist Emily Blunt's arms.

 

So they pop popcorn and pour sodas and park themselves in front of the flat screen to enjoy it.

 

Still, every few minutes, she glances out the sliding door, where she can just see Regina's profile if she cranes her head around enough.

 

Once, Regina is looking back.

 

(Or maybe she's just trying to figure out what they're watching. But Emma's going to go glass-half-full on this one.)

 

-

 

Tonight is one of their quiet nights where they don't really say anything. Emma's enjoying the peace and quiet when the sound of AC/DC blasting from her phone startles her out of her revelry.

 

“Sorry,” she says to Regina, but the other woman only shrugs.

 

Emma answers, and it's August, wanting to set up a time for a bunch of their Navy buddies to meet up for drinks next week.

 

Emma tells him Wednesday would work the best for her, then he moves on to a bit of small talk.

 

“What're you up to? Let me guess: outside somewhere all alone, looking at your precious stars?”

 

“Yes. Though not alone, thank you very much.”

 

“I'll believe _that_ when I see it.”

 

“No, hold on.” She puts the phone on speaker. “Here. Regina, say hi to August.”

 

“Hello, August,” Regina does as she's commanded, frowning at Emma, confused and possibly slightly annoyed. Emma grimaces.

 

“Well, whaddya know. Got yourself a lady friend, Barb?”

 

“Fuck off, Pinocchio,” Emma says, avoiding Regina's eyes, switching the phone back to normal mode and pressing it to her ear. “I've gotta get to bed, but I'll see you Wednesday.”

 

“See ya.”

 

She hangs up and clears her throat. “Sorry about that. I didn't mean to put you on the spot.”

 

“I think I managed fairly well,” Regina says with a raised brow.

 

“Oh, definitely. A performance worthy of repetition.”

 

“Did he call you Bob, by the way? An odd nickname.”

 

“Oh,” Emma rolls her eyes. “No. He said Barb. It's short for Barbie. Long story.”

 

“He calls you _Barbie_? And you haven't punched him for it?”

 

Emma laughs. “Much good it would do. It's a Navy thing. Most of us wound up with nicknames we used more than our actual names. He's Pinocchio because he's got this whole weird thing about lying. Swears up and down he hasn't told a lie in years. He's so obsessed with it, we figured his nose would grow if he actually did lie.”

 

“Fascinating.”

 

“Mine is...well, okay. One day during our first assignment after we were deployed, I beat August at arm wrestling. It was this huge thing where everyone was placing bets and all that. Almost no one had bet on me, obviously. One of them said it was like watching a GI Joe going up against a Barbie. But then I won, and the nickname stuck. Unfortunately. I used to hate it so much, and that made them use it even more, the shits. But, well. It was kind of a sign that I was 'in.' And that was nice. It...wasn't a feeling I'd had a lot.”

 

She hadn't really intended to share that last bit, and she feels way too vulnerable with those words floating around.

 

So she stands and folds up her chair.

 

“I should be heading to bed. Early morning,” she lies, biting her lip.

 

“Good night, Emma.”

 

It isn't until later that Emma realizes this is the first time Regina's called her by her first name.

 

-

 

Henry continues to make progress on “ _Noche de Paz_ ” every time they meet. Emma insists they work on other songs and techniques, but at least the last ten minutes of every lesson is dedicated to it.

 

Henry is not quite satisfied with his progress, thinking he should have mastered it by now. The kid is nothing if not devoted, but rather impatient. She gets it, though. He just wants to get things right. She can relate.

 

He's teaching her some Spanish here and there, too. The words feel a little awkward on her tongue, but she enjoys it anyway, letting Henry correct her over and over until she can roll her Rs perfectly.

 

-

 

The night of October 22 rolls around, and Emma hasn't said anything about her birthday to the Mills duo.

 

Which makes it all the more strange when Regina shows up with two giant slices of chocolate cake that night.

 

“What's this?”

 

“Henry's school had a bake sale fundraiser today, and I caved and bought one to bring home. We can only eat so much ourselves, and I know you like chocolate, so.” She shrugs and pushes a slice over to Emma's side of the bar.

 

“I'm always up for chocolate,” Emma says, digging into the cake and taking a large bite. She moans appreciatively. “This is amazing.”

 

Regina chews and swallows her bite before she replies. “I'm glad you like it.”

 

“Funny story: Today's actually my birthday. So your timing couldn't have been better.”

 

“You don't say. Well, happy birthday, Emma.”

 

There's something in her eyes Emma doesn't quite understand, but she feels a gentle smile on her face that matches Regina's.

 

“Thank you.”

 

-

 

The next night, it's chilly enough that Emma has to break our her gloves and real coat.

 

She can't wait for Regina to appear, because she'd had an interesting conversation with Henry during his lesson that she's a little confused about.

 

Finally, Regina appears, and after their initial greeting, Emma dives right in.

 

“So, I talked to Henry.”

 

“I assumed you didn't conduct your guitar lessons in sign language.”

 

Emma ignores her and continues. “He said you refused to buy anything from the bake sale.”

 

“Yes, that's true. I prefer to make my donations straight to the school.”

 

“No chocolate cake.”

 

“Don't make it into a big deal, Emma. It was only a cake.”

 

“Still. No one's made me a birthday cake since I was three. It deserves some kind of thanks. And how did you know it was my birthday, anyway?”

 

“Your background check. And ending this nonsensical conversation would be thanks enough. It was your birthday. I made a cake. It's what one does for one's friends. Now, if you don't mind, I'm expecting a call from the company VP any moment now.”

 

“It's 10 PM.”

 

“He has vampiric tendencies.”

 

“Hopefully only the nocturnal kind and not so much the 'I've come to suck your blood' bit.”

 

“He does seem to have a strange aversion to sunlight, but I've never felt uncomfortable being around him.”

 

“Um, have you never _seen_ a vampire movie? That's how they get you! They're all suave and debonaire and then BOOM, you're bloodless.”

 

“This conversation has taken a very odd turn.”

 

“I could bring up the cake again if you'd prefer.”

 

Regina mumbles something in Spanish and rolls her eyes. “Good night, Emma.”

 

“'Night, Regina. Stay safe. Don't invite any strangers into your house. Or your office.”

 

“I'll try to avoid it.”

 

“Good. I've gotten attached to having my stargazing buddy.”

 

Regina's phone start to ring, cutting off anything Emma would've said beyond that. Which is probably a good thing, really. Regina raises an eyebrow as she lifts the phone to her ear and greets the man on the other end.

 

“Right.” She mouths _good night_ at Regina, and the woman just gives her a finger wave and this little half smile that Emma keeps replaying in her mind's eye as she sits on her couch and half-watches _Golden Girls_ reruns until bed.

 

-

 

“Regina, it's fucking _freezing_ out here.”

 

“That tends to happen in November.”

 

“Come inside?”

 

“To your side?”

 

“Yeah. Henry has his phone, right? You can leave a note. We can...watch a movie or something. Or just talk like we usually do. Whatever. I'll make hot toddies. I mean, I don't actually have any idea what a hot toddy is, but they're supposed to be good for when you're cold, and I'm sure I can Google it-”

 

“Do you have honey?”

 

“Um. Yes?”

 

“Then I'm sure we can make toddies.”

 

“So that's a yes?”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Okay. I'll...come around, then.”

 

“Excellent.”

 

-

 

Hot toddies, it turns out, are both simple and extremely delicious.

 

“I can't believe I never knew what these were. My life has changed.”

 

“That's a lot of importance to put on one drink,” Regina says, taking a sip from her navy blue mug, identical to the one Emma has her hands wrapped around.

 

“I have my own priorities.”

 

“Ah, I see.”

 

“So, where to, now?” Emma asks, gesturing to the living room.

 

Regina shrugs.

 

“We can move to my couch. It's pretty comfy.”

 

“It should be, for how much effort you put into moving it,” Regina says with a smug half-smile as she moves toward the couch. Emma throws her a startled glance, but Regina has slipped back into whatever mood she's been in since she stepped outside twenty minutes ago. It's almost melancholy, and Emma doesn't know what to do with that. She isn't _good_ at emotional stuff.

 

“Alright.”

 

Emma lifts away from the kitchen counter and strides into the living room, following Regina, her footsteps echoing throughout the quiet rooms. Mulan is out, of course, probably somewhere over the Atlantic at the moment.

 

They settle into Emma's leather couch in a silence which stretches on endlessly. It isn't out of the norm for them, but somehow the quiet seems natural when you're outside in the calm. There are stars to gaze at, a breeze blowing, a neighborhood dog barking (and not adhering to the no-loud-noises-after-ten rule, Emma helpfully pointed out several nights ago, but Regina didn't seem to care). It's open. Inside, the quiet is restrictive, making Emma aware of each time she shifts against the leather, how loud she is when she clears her throat. It shouldn't be awkward. But it is.

 

Finally, she can't take it any longer, and she speaks. “You're quiet tonight.”

 

“We're always quiet.”

 

“Yeah. True.”

 

Emma's out after that.

 

“I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, Emma. We can turn on the television if you'd prefer. Or I can just go.”

 

“No! It's not bad.It's just...different. In here, instead of out there.”

 

She doesn't really know how to describe it, but thankfully, Regina nods in understanding.

 

“Strange how an environment can change so much. But I still enjoy your company. Much as I might continue to question my own judgment on that one.”

 

“Oh, ha ha,” Emma deadpans, but the silence is less oppressive now, and Emma can relax into the back of her seat and notice the fact that this might be the first time she has seen Regina without her shoes. She is wearing fluffy maroon socks that look incredibly warm, and Emma's perpetually chilly toes nearly curl out of envy.

 

“Today makes six years. Since Daniel died.”

 

“ _Oh_. Oh, Regina. God, I'm an ass, sitting here, trying to get you to talk. You don't have to if you don't want to.”

 

“It's okay. You couldn't have known.”

 

“Yeah, but I realized something was up. I'm just...I'm sorry.”

 

“Thank you.” Regina sits in silence for a few moments, staring into her hot toddy as she swirls it around, as if it might hold an important secret. “I was just sitting here, thinking about how he would want me to move on. I decided I would try, last year. Well, I thought I should a couple years ago, but I got intentional about it this year. I dated a couple people, but neither of them stuck. The first guy,” she pauses and lets out this weird little chuckle. “I went out with him a couple times and decided he wasn't right for me. After I broke it off, I got this letter from him a week later, where he swore up and down we were soulmates and begged me to give him a second chance.”

 

“Yikes.”

 

“Oh, that isn't even the best part. Apparently his tattoo artist also earns money on the side as a psychic, and she's the one who told him we were meant to be.”

 

“Double yikes.”

 

“Exactly. And he wonders why I didn't let him meet Henry.”

 

“Sounds like a wise choice.”

 

“Then there was Marian.”

 

Emma nearly chokes on her drink but refrains. She covers by taking a large swallow that is mildly painful as it goes down, but thankfully keeps her from spewing the liquid all over the carpet or executing any similarly humiliating displays. She manages a mild “Hmm?” which prompts Regina to continue.

 

“We went out for nearly two months. She was actually Henry's teacher, and she was terrific with him, but neither of us really felt that spark, you know? Then she was offered a job across the country, and we parted amicably. She still Skypes Henry every so often.”

 

She she _she_. Multiple uses of the female pronoun. Meaning Regina Mills falls somewhere on the queer scale, meaning that Emma might actually _not_ have to add Regina to her list of Hopeless Straight Girl Crushes. That maybe they could actually have something.

 

But now is not the time for that, so Emma stows away this shining little ray of hope and concentrates on the conversation at hand.

 

“After that, I decided I'd just stop trying to force it. I love my son. I enjoy my job. I'm not going to rush just because it's finally been long enough that I feel like I can be with someone without betraying his memory.”

 

“That sounds wise,” Emma says, and she sips her drink again and tries not to say anything stupid.

 

Thankfully, she succeeds.

 

Regina only stays another twenty minutes, and she doesn't share anything more about her love life or lack thereof.

 

Instead, they mostly sit in silence, sipping their toddies.

 

When Regina stands to leave, Emma reaches over and gives her hand a brief, gentle squeeze, and the look she gets in return is brittle, startled, before it softens into a gentle smile.

 

“See you tomorrow?”

  
“At five, if not earlier.”

 

“Great.”

 

-

 

The next Thursday, Emma gets home from work and walks to the mailbox to check her mail, like she does every day. She makes her way back up toward the house, sorting through the usual junk.

 

And then she sees the words that make her stop short in the driveway.

 

She doesn't even know how long she's been standing there until she's jolted out of her trance when Regina's Mercedes pulls halfway into the driveway and stops about three feet short of hitting her.

 

“Emma, are you okay?” Henry's little head is poked out of the window, his breath making foggy puffs in the air.

 

Emma forces a smile and realizes she can't really feel her cheeks.

 

Maybe the cold. Maybe shock.

 

 _New Haven Adoption Agency_ reads the first line in the upper left hand corner, and Emma doesn't even know what's inside.

 

“I'm fine, Hen! Sorry, I'll get out of the way,” she grimaces apologetically at Regina through the windshield and is glad she can't really see the other woman's face through the glass.

 

Henry's lesson is in twenty minutes, and Emma can't decide if she'd rather open it now and know whether it's nothing or...well, _something_. But if it is something real, she probably won't be in the mood to deal with a ten-year-old for an hour.

 

She's really excited about today's lesson, too. The kid's been doing great, and she thinks he's about to nail “ _Noche de Paz._ ”

 

It's all Emma can do to think about these things over the roaring in her ears.

 

She may as well stop kidding herself. She's going to open it.

 

So she slides her finger along the envelope and rips it open carefully, pulling out the paper and unfolding it, letting her eyes run along the lines.

 

And then she slides down the door until she's sitting right in the small pool of melted slush she tracked in on her boots.

 

“Ms. Swan” and “after genetic testing, we have confirmed parental claim by woman” and “letter” and “if you indicate interest” and “time sensitive.”

 

She has to read through it three times before it fully makes sense.

 

Because Emma's adoption by her first potential family wasn't officially closed or open, given the circumstances surrounding her lack of guardian, nor was it ever finalized, they don't have a precedent for what to do in her case. However, a woman has initiated a desire for contact with Emma through the agency, and her maternal claim has been confirmed by a DNA test compared to the sample kept in Emma's records. She has written a letter to Emma, and it is up to Emma to send the agency an indication on whether or not she wants to receive it. They will not confirm Emma's identity or give our any of her contact information to the woman, nor vice versa, due to confidentiality; it is up to her if she wants them to share any of those details...

 

The words blur in front of her, and Emma isn't sure if she is about to pass our or cry.

 

It turns out she has no time to do either, because the doorbell echoing through her skull reminds her that it's time for Henry's guitar lesson.

 

Emma reaches up behind her head and grabs the doorknob, using it as extra leverage to pull herself up off the floor.

 

Her butt feels cold where she'd been sitting in the puddle. She clears her throat and tries to appear normal when she opens the door. Henry is as excited as usual, and it would normally break her heart to send him away, but at the moment, her heart feels like solid lead in her chest, heavy and dull and unbreakable.

 

“Hey, little man, I'm not feeling so well, so I'm gonna have to take a rain check, okay?”

 

“Are you running a fever? Mom can make you soup. She always makes the best soup for me when I have a fever.”

 

“I'll keep that in mind.”

 

“Feel better, Emma.”

 

Regina – who hasn't said a word the entire exchange ' is more shrewd, and Emma sees her eyes dart down to the letter, and Emma shifts it protectively behind her back.

 

“I hope you feel better soon, Ms. Swan.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Regina nods, hesitates for a split second, and then continues after Henry back to her side of the duplex.

 

Emma shuts the door, shucks her now awkwardly damp pants, grabs a pint of Ben & Jerry's, and sits down in front of the television.

 

She stares at it until the ice cream is gone and her eyes hurt, and she curls up under a fleece throw and falls asleep.

 

-

 

She texts Regina the next day, offering to hold a makeup session for Henry that evening instead.

 

_I'm sure he'll love that, but are you sure you're up to it?_

 

 _Wasn't really sick. Just had some news I wasn't expecting and couldn't really do company_.

 

_Anything I can do to help?_

 

_No, but thanks for the offer. See you guys tonight?_

 

_We'll be there._

 

_-_

 

By all means, their nightly meetings should diminish in length and frequency, due to the cold, but they don't. Sometimes they spend a few minutes outside looking up at the stars, once or twice she is invited to Regina's, but more often, they wind up on Emma's side. They tend to speak more when they're inside, curled up in a warm, safe cocoon. Emma is tempted to talk about the letter, but she still isn't quite there. Instead, she talks about her time in the Navy, how she hated living on a ship but was thankful it wasn't a submarine where she wouldn't have been able to see the stars for weeks or months at a time.

 

Emma learns Regina employs a maid to clean twice a week, though she wishes she didn't have to.

 

“I try to do most of the cooking, because I enjoy it, and I think meal times are important for family bonding. But I simply don't have the time to do all the cleaning, too.”

 

“Regina, you run your own damn company. You're an amazing mom. No one should judge you for knowing when and where you need help. You're not Superwoman, no matter how much you try to be.”

 

Regina just sends her a mild glower for that, then turns back and takes a sip of her wine. She hums in thought a little bit and doesn't say anything for the rest of the night.

 

-

 

By the time December rolls around, Henry has mastered “ _Noche de Paz_.” He can play it perfectly. Emma can attest to this, as she's now heard him play it so many times, she's ready to rip out her own eardrums.

 

But it really is sweet, how excited he is, so she tries not to grit her teeth as he goes for one last run-through.

 

-

 

On December twentieth, a Christmas miracle happens.

 

Okay, it probably depends on your perspective. Most people wouldn't exactly call it a “miracle” so much as a “shit-tastic failing of modern conveniences” but, well. From Emma's perspective, it winds up being pretty darn miraculous.

 

-

 

When her doorbell rings at 9 at night, Emma isn't quite sure what to expect. She takes her baseball bat out of the coat closet next to the door – only to set it back inside when a glance through the peephole reveals Regina.

 

Emma's heart speeds up before she can give it her regular “chill the fuck out, she isn't interested” speech.

 

She opens the door, and Henry is there, too. With a pillow.

 

“Emma. Hi.” Regina's face is taut, stretched into a thin facsimile of a smile. She's clearly frustrated but trying to appear cordial, and the result is more than a little jarring. “I have a favor to ask you. Our heat is out, it seems no one will be able to repair it until tomorrow, and I don't have any wood for our fireplace. Would it be possible for Henry to sleep on your couch? I hate to inconvenience you, but-”

 

“Of course! Just let me, er-” Emma maneuvers to the horror movie she was watching, paused on something rather gruesome. “Close your eyes, kid.” before she shuts the screen off. “Sorry. Wasn't expecting company. But of course he's welcome! We actually have a spare bedroom. You're both more than welcome.”

 

Regina waves her off.

 

“I can tough it out at home. I have plenty of blankets. I just didn't want him catching a chill with his school recital tomorrow.”

 

“Of course. But I object on one point: You have to stay here, too.”

 

“I can't-”

 

“Regina. Yes, you can. I won't be able to sleep if I know you're lying awake freezing a few feet away.”

 

“I-”

 

“And I know Henry would probably prefer having a regular, breathing mother, rather than a Momsicle you'll be turned into.”

 

“Well. I suppose. If it isn't too much trouble.”

 

“Not at all. I might not have enough blankets for the both of you, but if you brought your own, I have an extra bed and a super comfy couch. You two can fight it out. If you like, my bed is always open, too.”

 

Regina raises a brow, and Emma's face feels like it goes full-out magenta. “I mean, I could take the couch! So neither of you would be stuck with it. Which is probably what a good host would do. I didn't mean-”

 

“I will be perfectly fine on the couch, thank you.”

 

But while Regina is next door grabbing her bedding and toothbrush, Emma rushes to her bedroom, clears off her pillow and a blanket, and hurries to claim the living room couch.

 

She's sitting there, grinning, when Regina returns, and she points up the stairs. Regina just rolls her eyes and clomps up the stairs to Emma's bedroom. But the smiles while she does so, just a little, and it's the first time Emma's seen her smile all night.

 

_-_

 

Later, after Henry is zonked out in the spare bedroom upstairs, Emma and Regina are sharing a nightcap in the living room. She could turn on the television, but she's enjoying the quiet, staring at the flames dancing around the inside of the fireplace.

 

Regina sighs from the lounge chair adjacent to Emma's corner of the couch, and Emma looks over.

 

“You know, I'd have thought if anyone could get someone to come over and fix their heat in the middle of the night, it'd be you.”

 

“Turns out my persuasive powers only work on humans, not machines telling me to call back after eight AM.”

 

“Crazy.”

 

“Isn't it?”

 

Regina is still clearly distracted by something. Emma chews her lip, debating on the wisdom of pursuing the subject. She might be able to help, if only by listening. But then again, she might get her head bitten off, and she certainly understands the need to keep things to yourself for a while. She thinks of a mysterious letter, the agency still waiting on her answer.

 

“I talked to my mother today,” Regina says, breaking the silence, and understanding dawns on Emma.

 

“Didn't go well?”

 

A bark of dark laughter answers Emma's question.

 

“Oh, it never does. I don't know why I ever bring myself to expect something different. In twenty minutes, she will have found my most painful button to push, and she'll criticize and critique me until I find myself apologizing, or even worse, _agreeing_ with her. Every time.” She shakes her head and laughs a bitter laugh, tosses back the rest of her scotch. She turns to look at Emma for the first time. “Why do I let her do that?”

 

“I don't know. Why don't you cut her out?”

 

Regina sighs. “I did. For a while. While Daniel and I were together, though we sort of mended fences toward the end. Things were starting to warm up, just a little, when Daniel died. Do you know what she said when I told her?”

 

“Mmm?”

 

Regina clenches her teeth and looks back at the fire. “She said she was very sorry for my loss, but at least it meant that it was time for this escapade of mine to end and that I could come home.” Regina shakes her head and runs her tongue across her teeth, the old anger radiating from every inch of her frame.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

Regina cocks her head in acknowledgment. “Yeah. I didn't speak to her for a year after that.”

 

Emma taps her fingers on her thigh, words hovering on the tip of her tongue. Aside from two or three times, their talks haven't really gotten this deep. She still isn't used to sharing, not personal things like this. She and Mulan don't really do the whole deep talk thing at all. Usually their conversations revolve around how much of which meat comprises the best pizza, or which aircraft to pick for a transcontinental flight.

 

“More scotch?” she asks instead, and maybe it's the coward's way out, but it also sounds like a really damn good idea at the moment.

 

“You read my mind,” Regina answers, holding out her glass.

 

Emma refills them both, then goes back to staring at the fire.

 

“I got a letter from my biological mother.”

 

“Wait, what? How?” Regina is understandably confused, as she already knows the basics of Emma's abandoned-by-the-side-of-the-road story.

 

“Well, not an _actual_ letter, though there is one. I have to decide whether or not I want to see it.”

 

“I still don't understand.”

 

So Emma explains, the day she canceled their lesson, the details spelled out in the letter. “I guess she must've sent one to every adoption company in Maine. That's...that's a lot of dedication, like it seems like she could have something important to say.”

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

“But what _could_ you say? I mean, honestly?” Emma feels scalding hot anger bubbling up, seemingly out of nowhere. “What the _fuck_ could she possibly have to say to me? After all this time? 'Hey, sorry about that whole almost killing you and screwing up your entire childhood thing, but let's go get some ice cream?' _No_.”

 

Emma puts a hand to her forehead and breathes, trying to calm the livid boiling in her veins.

 

There's also the tiny part of her that wants to break down crying, and that's not at all where she wants the night to go.

 

“Mothers,” she says instead, and if the dry humor in her voice is impeded by her cracked, desperate tone, Regina pretends not to notice. She lifts her glass in a salute and drinks, emptying it in two gulps. Emma follows suit.

 

“You know, I think tonight might be a Sinatra kind of night.”

 

Emma cocks her head. “Um. Okay? I can turn Pandora if you want, just a sec.”

 

She fumbles around for the remote, but Regina stops her.

 

“No, I mean...you told me you only sing when you're drunk, and you always sing Sinatra.”

 

Emma blushes, wondering yet again why she let that fact out into the open. “Right. Forgot I'd mentioned that. But I don't know, you'll have to convince me. I'm still at least two drinks away from the Sinatra zone.”

 

“Then by all means,” Regina says, gesturing to the bottle of scotch between them.

 

Emma chews the side of her cheek. “Okay, but only if you have to do something just as embarrassing. My choice.”

 

“Deal.”

 

They do a shot to seal it.

 

-

 

An hour later, they're both toasted beyond belief. Emma warbles her way through “I Won't Dance,” trying to keep quiet enough that she won't wake Henry. Regina had protested her choice at first, wanting “The Way You Look Tonight” because it's her favorite Sinatra, but Emma just rolled her eyes, because that's _everyone's_ favorite Sinatra, and she refuses to cave to societal pressure. Regina doesn't seem to mind anymore, folded into the corner of the barcalounger, shaking with laughter. Emma finishes the song with a flourish, sweeping into a low bow that throws her off balance, and she stumbles trying to pull herself upright before she falls.

 

This sends Regina into another bout of laughter, and Emma giggles until her sides ache. Mostly, though Regina doesn't know it, in anticipation. Emma reaches into the cabinet and switches out the disc in her Wii, grabbing the small, white remote to turn it on.

 

“You want me to play a game?” Regina asks, confused.

 

“Not just any game.”

 

Emma clicks, and the Just Dance screen pops up. Regina's face goes slack.

 

“Fuck.”

 

Emma can't help a peal of laughter

 

“I'm going to kill my son.”

 

“Awww, he just loves you!” Emma says, trying to keep a straight face. Her head is fuzzy with suppressed laughter. “So he wants to talk about you! You and your love of dancing to 'Wannabe.'” She cracks up on the last word, her mental image of Regina dancing to Spice Girls

 

“That's _his_ favorite, actually.”

 

“Yeah, but he says you always get more points on it. Which means you've done it enough to be good. So let's see the moves.” Emma gestures to the open space in front of the screen.

 

Regina sends her a death glare that should probably have her cowering in the corner and booking a seat on the next flight to Timbuktu, but she stands.

 

The music starts, and, well. Imagination had _nothing_ on reality.

 

-

 

An hour after that, Emma's head is beginning to clear, though Regina still seems to be three sheets to the wind. Somewhere deep down, she's amused that she can handle her alcohol better than the ever-capable Regina.

 

Emma keeps yawning, which makes Regina yawn, which prompts them both to decide it's time for bed.

 

Regina complains that the bedroom is too far away, that she doesn't want to climb the stairs, so Emma offers to help her. She slings Regina's arm around her shoulders, and – slowly, because Emma's still a little more tipsy than she'd realized – they make their way up the stairs and to Emma's bedroom.

 

Regina flops down on the bed immediately.

 

“I should brush my teeth,” she says, her voice muffled by the pillow.

 

“You can do that in the morning.”

 

“Your sheets smell like you.”

 

Emma flushes. “Probably don't wash them as much as I should, sorry. I have fresh ones in the closet somewhere-”

 

“No, don't. I like it.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Regina rolls over to look at her.

 

“You should really decorate for Christmas.”

 

Emma huffs a quiet laugh. “Um, okay. Sure, Regina. Good night now.”

 

“No, really. A tree, some reindeer. Mistletoe.” She slurs the word slightly. “You should definitely get some mistletoe.”

 

“I'll think it over.”

 

Regina gazes up at her, though her sultry look is interrupted by a small hiccup.

 

“You know, we could kiss without it.”

 

Emma has the sudden feeling that her thoughts are spiraling off in a thousand different directions at once, which has the unfortunate effect of leaving her poor brain behind, blank and befuddled. Two seconds later, everything crashes in on her, the disbelief, the excitement, the hope that maybe her pointless yearning hasn't been so pointless after all.

 

Her mind and body are alive with the realization, floating and sparking, but she is thankfully sober enough that she can also hear the reason, loud and clear.

 

“I kind of don't want to be drunk the first time I kiss you. I don't want _you_ to be drunk the first time I kiss you.”

 

“I'm hardly drunk. Maybe slightly tipsy,” Regina pouts from the bed, and her eyes slip shut.

 

“I'll ask you to repeat that thing about my sheets in the morning when you're sober, then.”

 

“Okay,” she says, nestling into the pillow.

 

Emma leaves, shutting the door behind her, then letting her head rest against it, grinning to herself and hugging her arms into her chest. Just for a moment.

 

-

 

Emma wakes up in the middle of the night when Mulan gets home from her red eye flight, and she gives her the quick rundown on the fact that they have two sudden houseguests.

 

Mulan smirks.

 

“Finally got the lady in your bed, and you're not even there to enjoy it.”

 

“Oh, shove off,” Emma snips, mostly good-naturedly. Mulan laughs and tiptoes up the stairs, and Emma goes back to sleep.

 

-

 

Saturday morning, Emma wakes up to Regina making pancakes and bacon. Because while she doesn't hold her liquor very well, apparently she has some superhuman body that doesn't get hungover. Because of _course_ she does.

 

She doesn't mention the kissing conversation, so Emma doesn't bring it up either.

 

Henry wakes not long after Emma, and the three of them have a quick breakfast before Henry and Regina have to run. Apparently Henry's school is hosting some sort of drive, and everyone working the event has to be properly decked out in their best Yuletide gear.

 

Emma envisions this to mean that Henry will go all-out dressing up, and Regina will be wearing a classy red sweater with some tasteful gold earrings.

 

But Emma happens to be outside grabbing yesterday's mail when the Mills duo emerges.

 

As she'd expected, Henry is fully decked out in his Santa suit, a fake white beard clutched in his hand. Behind him, Regina is turned away from Emma, locking the door, and when she rotates, Emma almost lets her jaw hit the ground.

 

Because Regina _is_ dressed in a classy red sweater with gold earrings and perfectly coiffed hair. But that hair is held back by one of those headbands with reindeer antlers, while her nose is covered by a giant red sparkly ball.

 

It's the most adorable thing Emma has seen in her entire life.

 

And dammit if she doesn't fall in love right then and there.

 

-

 

But not, like. _Real_ love or anything.

 

It would be stupid to fall in love over antlers and a reindeer nose. Honestly. What kind of story would _that_ be to share with her future grandkids?

 

Even if said antlers are worn by a woman with hard edges but soft eyes in the evenings and an amazing body and smooth, brown skin and dorky dance moves and who is a terrific mother to her son. Whose company Emma looks forward to more than almost anything else.

 

Shit.

 

-

 

“Do you have Christmas plans, Ms. Swan?” Regina asks when she drops Henry off for his lesson on Monday. Emma hasn't seen either of them since Saturday morning, though she did text Regina on Saturday night to confirm that their heat had been fixed. It had, a fact over which Emma had to admonish herself for feeling disappointed.

 

“Mulan's flying to Hartford – not herself, I mean, as a passenger – to see her folks, so it's just gonna be me. I'll probably watch It's a Wonderful Life. Make a grilled cheese. Drink some hot cocoa.”

 

“A grilled cheese. On Christmas.”

 

“I love grilled cheese.”

 

“Yes, but you can't just eat the same thing on Christmas as you do every other day of the year.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because there will be more food than Henry or I could possibly eat only twenty feet away from you. And we'll be in need of assistance.”

 

Emma feels the beginnings of a smile. “Oh, you will?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“It's true!” Henry pipes up. “We always have a _million_ leftovers.”

 

Regina raises a superior eyebrow as if to say, “See?”

 

“I guess I have no other choice than to agree.”

 

“Great! We have stockings first thing in the morning, but dinner will be served at noon if you'd like to join us then.”

 

Emma rubs the back of her neck. “I just don't know how I feel about barging in and taking up your whole Christmas.”

 

“You're invited, so it wouldn't be barging. I'm afraid the invitation does not stretch to the evening, as Henry and I will be attending my mother's annual Christmas party, a painful endeavor I would never subject you to.”

 

“Well, then. I'd love to hang out with you guys. Especially if there's food.”

 

“So. Much. Food,” Henry says, eyes bulging, in that gleeful way that only young boys seem to be able to pull off without sounding like an imbecile.

 

At least according to Regina when Emma got equally excited about an ice cream sundae last week.

 

-

 

When Christmas morning arrives, Emma still isn't completely sure about the whole Christmas-with-the-Mills-family thing.

 

It isn't that it feels wrong, exactly.

 

In fact, it's more that it feels right.

 

And that is its own special brand of terrifying.

 

-

 

Christmas afternoon with the Mills goes just as Emma would have guessed. Instrumental music plays in the background, and there's so much good food that Emma is testing the limits of how much she can eat before she explodes like a human balloon. Regina has freshly mixed gingerbread cookies in the oven when she announces it's time for presents.

 

Even though he'd always claimed he was going to save it for last, Henry darts over to the tree and grabs the tiny package from underneath and hands it to Regina. The tag – almost bigger than the box itself – shows that it's to Regina from Henry, and she looks at him questioningly as she takes in the miniscule size of the gift.

 

“What on earth?” she says, mystified.

 

“You're never gonna guess,” Henry says smugly.

 

“You're probably right.”

 

Regina shrugs and peels open the paper, lifts off the top of the box, only to reveal...

 

“A guitar pick?” she questions, picking it up and looking at it. Her mouth is still frozen in a smile, like she hasn't quite formulated what she's supposed to do with this information.

 

Before she can turn on the fake enthusiasm Emma guesses is coming, Henry snatches the pick from his mother's hand.

 

“That's mine.”

 

“But-” Now Regina looks utterly befuddled, and Henry giggles.

 

“Just wait.”

 

He scurries out of the room, and Regina turns to Emma with a question in her eyes.

 

Emma holds up her hands. “Don't ask me. My lips are sealed.”

 

He returns to the living room with his guitar in his hand, and Regina nods in sudden understanding. She mutes Pandora as Henry sits down and gets situated.

 

He starts playing, and Regina holds both hands up to her mouth.

 

Emma looks away to give her privacy, turning her gaze to Henry and willing him to hit every strum and chord just right, but she glances Regina's way occasionally during the song.

 

It's clearly having the effect Henry wanted.

 

Her hand are still clasped together in front of her mouth, and by the time he reaches the last verse, her cheeks are flushed and tear-stained.

 

He plays the song perfectly, better than any one of their practices, and Emma is overjoyed for his sake. She doesn't even mind that this is the three thousandth time she's heard it, because there's a whole new feeling when the gift is being given and received simultaneously. It's almost like a whole new song with the same music and lyrics as the old.

 

He lets the last note fade away, and Regina immediately scoots over to hug him, pressing a tearful kiss to the top of his head and whispering a string of hoarse Spanish into his ear.

 

Emma turns away again, feeling mostly like a really awkward outsider, though there's a small part of her that is thrilled she is partly responsible for this altogether beautiful moment of unfettered happiness and love. It's way better than either of the small gifts she's wrapped and set under their tree.

 

Regina backs away from Henry, clearing her throat once and wiping her cheeks.

 

“Way to set the bar pretty high there, kid,” Emma teases, and Henry just laughs and looks super smug.

 

Twenty minutes later, there are three piles of wrapping paper on the floor – one much larger than the others, because shock of all shocks, Regina's given Henry a shit ton of gifts – and there's only one gift left under the tree, a large, oblong box.

 

Emma's all prepared to sit back and watch Henry open his final gift, but Regina doesn't place it in front of him. Instead, she gently sets it down right in front of Emma, and Emma squints at the package in confusion. The tag reads _108 Mifflin,_ but it doesn't specify A or B.

 

Emma looks up questioningly.

 

“As our guest, you have the honors,” is all Regina says by way of explanation.

 

So Emma starts ripping and stops when she has it it halfway unwrapped. It's a telescope. A good one. There's no way she can accept this. She shakes her head.

 

“Regina-”

 

Regina holds up a hand to stop her. “Stop right there. This isn't for you. This is for all of us, including me. I didn't even know if you'd be interested or if you already had one. But you and I can both use it for stargazing, as can Mulan if she likes. Or Henry if he decides he's interested.”

 

Henry rolls his eyes. “Like I care about your boring stars. Oh, but I can use it to spy on the neighbors!”

 

Regina playfully smacks him on the back of the head.

 

“You'll do no such thing.”

 

Emma's still a little bit uneasy with the sheer extravagance of the gift, but well. It _is_ a good gift, and since it isn't entirely for her...

 

She isn't able to officially come to a decision before Henry gets bored watching her stare down at a box, and he sets his guitar in his lap again.

 

“Don't tell me you have another _villancico, mijo_. I don't think I can take that again,” Regina teases, and Henry shakes his face.

 

“Nope! Same one. It's just your turn to sing! I know you know this one. You used to sing it to me all the time.”

 

Regina's face suddenly transforms from Proud Mama into very definition of “alarmed.”

 

“Henry, I don't know...” Her eyes dart to Emma, then back to her son.

 

“You don't like it?” Henry says, and his puppy dog eyes are huge.

 

Emma is about 80% sure he's totally manipulating Regina right now, and Regina probably knows it, too, but she melts regardless.

 

“Of course I do. I _love_ it. I'll be happy to sing with you, _mijo_. I was only afraid our resident musical expert wouldn't want to hear my poor excuse for a voice.”

 

“You have a beautiful voice, Mama.”

 

“Besides, I can't sing either,” Emma pipes up. Mirth flashes across Regina's face, and Emma knows she's recalling Emma's drunken Sinatra routine.

 

“Well, _that's_ true. I suppose it's only time to turn the tables.”

 

“Mom.”

 

“Right. Okay, go ahead. Just prompt me when you want me to start.”

 

He does. He strums a few times and nods at her, and Regina starts singing in a husky alto.

 

“ _Noche de paz, noche de amor_ ”

 

Emma tries to keep a blank face, but she, well.

 

She falls.

 

Hard.

 

She watches as Regina nods at Henry, prompting him to join her. When he shakes his head and sticks out his tongue, Regina narrows her eyes at him, but she's smiling, and she keeps singing. Henry messes up the chords a bit and has to look down and concentrate on his fingers to continue, but Regina's voice carries the tune, clear and strong. Without her son to hold her gaze, she's focused entirely inward, clearly recalling old memories as she continues along with the lyrics. Her face is as peaceful as Emma's ever seen it, and Emma can't help but stare.

 

Seeming to sense this, Regina opens her eyes as she nears the end of the song, and she watches Emma as she continues.

 

Emma has heard the lyrics to this song – both in English and in Spanish – enough times that by this point, it should have lost any sort of meaning for her.

 

But she feels like she's being wrapped up in the magic of Christmas itself as Regina sings, gaze locked with Emma's.

 

She feels like she's in a dream, that the entire world has been shrunk to her and the woman in front of her.

 

Logically, in the back of her head, she knows Henry is still in the room. But it doesn't feel like there's anyone else in the entire universe.

 

In that moment, she watches the gleam in the brunette's eyes, and she would swear Regina feels the same way she does.

 

Her chest swells and swells, and it's suddenly hard to breathe, but in a good way.

 

The moment is broken when Emma realizes something suddenly feels off. She glances over and realizes that Henry has let the last note of the song trail off, and she and Regina are just sitting there in silence.

 

Finally, Regina gently clears her throat and turns to Henry, who is peering between her and Emma like he is trying to puzzle something out.

 

“ _Gracias, mijo. Feliz navidad_.”

 

“ _Te quiero, Mamá._ ”

 

Henry sets aside his guitar, and Emma figures he's going to hug Regina, but instead, he scoots over to _her_ and enfolds her in his small arms.

 

“Thanks for being an awesome teacher, Emma. You rock.”

 

“You're welcome, kid,” Emma manages, even though she has this ache in her throat like she suddenly wants to sob but also smile at the same time.

 

Regina is staring at them in this way Emma doesn't really know what to do with, and Henry backs away to start going through his presents and decide which one to open first.

 

Emma finds herself standing, thankful she already has her glass in her hand, so she can pretend she's hightailing it to the kitchen because she finds herself in need of refreshment, not because she's on the verge of a sudden emotional breakdown.

 

The song was beautiful the first time. But this time? This time, she wasn't just an outsider. This was a family moment. And she was included in it.

 

“Emma?” comes Henry's voice from the living room.

 

“Just a sec!” she returns, quickly dumping the rest of her water down the sink and sticking it in the fridge dispenser to refill it, just in case Henry has decided now would be a good time to use his super powers of observation.

 

She closes her eyes for a couple seconds as the water fills her cup, breathing in and out, in and out.

 

She wills the mess of emotions to subside, and it mostly works. When she returns from the kitchen, she's able to function normally again.

 

She enjoys the rest of the afternoon, but a part of her is glad when she has to leave to let Henry and Regina get ready for the party.

 

She has some thinking to do.

 

-

 

Emma spends the first half of the afternoon doing said thinking, the second half acting. She writes a letter and runs out to stick it in the nearest USPS drop box, before she can change her mind. She isn't guaranteeing anything, but she is at least open to seeing what the woman's letter has to say.

 

Then she drives around looking for an open store, finally stopping at a gas station in desperation, only to find the exact thing she needs.

 

Of course, the station isn't _selling_ it; it's part of their decorations. But she talks the manager into letting her buy it anyway, and she leaves, victorious.

 

Now, she just has to wait to put everything into motion.

 

Emma is sitting in front of the television when she sees the headlights of the Mercedes swing into the driveway. Finally.

 

They'd made plans earlier in the day for Emma to come over for her first ever viewing of Nothing Like the Holidays after their return. One of them – hopefully Regina, but if it's Henry, she's sure she can get him on board with the plan – is to come over and get her, since she'd left her phone at work the day before. She figures it'll probably about fifteen minutes, twenty tops. Long enough to change clothes, maybe pop some popcorn or pour some eggnog.

 

She waits a couple minutes, then throws on her coat, grabs everything she needs, and tiptoes over to the porch on the other side of their house. She sets up everything she needs, the mistletoe, the old boombox Mulan had tucked away in a closet, plugged into the outlet that would be providing electricity to Mulan and Emma's exterior Christmas lights if they had any.

 

They'll need to fix that next year, she thinks absently, as she tries not to let her teeth chatter.

 

It's _really_ cold out here.

 

Ten minutes pass, then twenty. Emma jogs in place and rubs her fingers together. She's wearing her warmest, fluffiest coat, but she didn't think to bring gloves. Ten more minutes, and she's contemplating going back inside for a few, just to thaw out. But with her luck, the second she goes inside, Regina will come outside. And if Emma isn't there, the whole thing will be ruined.

 

Almost an hour after she'd gone outside, the door in front of her finally opens.

 

Emma blinks, so cold it takes her brain a second to catch up to the woman standing in front of her. She jumps into action, pushing _play_ on the boom box as Regina closes the door behind her. As she does so, the mistletoe seems to catch her eye, and she looks up at it for a moment, then over at the boombox where the first notes of “The Way You Look Tonight” are starting up.

 

Then to Emma, who clears her throat.

 

“I've always hated mistletoe. It skeeves me out, the thought of arbitrarily having to kiss someone just because of a dumb plant. So don't think of this as regular mistletoe. Think of it as Totally Optional Because Consent Is Always Your Call mistletoe. If nothing else, it's the one and only decoration I've put up this year, so if all you want to do is compliment my decorating skills, that's up to you.

 

“The music is because I know time with your mother always stresses you out, and I thought you might want one dance to a song you like, where there's no pressure on you to be anything other than who you are. So, um. Yeah. That's all.”

 

Regina stares at her, and Emma starts to feel like maybe this was all a really stupid, over-the-top idea, and _damn_ , she's cold, but then Regina starts to smile, and as it grows, so does the warm glow radiating in Emma's chest.

 

“I'd love to dance with you,” Regina answers.

 

Emma reaches out to take her hand – also bare – and when she does, Regina flinches, though she still moves into a slow dance position.

 

“ _Emma_. Your hands are freezing. How long have you been out here?”

 

“Shh. Not important.”

 

“How long?”

 

“Since you got home?”

 

Regina sighs. “Idiot,” she says, but she pulls Emma even closer. It's probably because she's trying to provide warmth, which is not exactly the motivation Emma was hoping for. But she doesn't care, because Regina's cheek is warm and smooth where it's pressed against hers. They sway back and forth on the porch as the music continues, and even if her legs are stiff and awkward from the cold and their stance is slightly awkward because of the bulk of two coats separating them, this is the best dance she's ever had.

 

The music winds down, and Regina pulls back just a little.

 

Emma tries not to, but her gaze flits up to the mistletoe just for a second, wondering what Regina's decision is going to be.

 

Instead, the woman starts talking.

 

“Funnily enough, my mother tends to focus on matchmaking at larger events, so it's actually one of the easier times to be with her.”

 

“Matchmaking?” Emma frowns.

 

“Oh, you know. Setting me up with hedge fund managers and doctors. Anyone with good breeding who's still on this side of seventy.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Don't get me wrong, I hate it. But entitled rich men are all basically the same, so I've learned how to deflect interest without damaging fragile egos. This year, though, I told her I was seeing someone. Which...well, wasn't true, strictly speaking. But I was hoping to talk to you tonight and see if it was a possibility.” She gestures around with an air of amusement. “Seems you beat me to the punch.”

 

Emma can't hold back her grin. “So if I asked you to go out with me sometime...”

 

“I would say yes.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Good,” Regina echoes. “Now, I believe I have my mistletoe decision ready.”

 

“And?”

 

“For one, I'm not sure why you think I'd compliment you on it. It's a good effort, but a little crooked, honestly,” she says playfully, and Emma lets her jaw drop.

 

“Hey!”

 

“Which I suppose leaves me only one option.” She lets her eyes drop to Emma's lips, and Emma swallows, hard.

 

Regina leans in slowly, letting her fingertips rest on Emma's jaw. Her lips are light as a feather against Emma's, and Emma barely registers the essence of lipstick and cinnamon before she pulls away.

 

They lean in again, readjusting the angle, and when their lips meet, Emma's heart beats so strongly she can feel the blood pumping in her head. She lets her fingers run up and down the sleeves of Regina's coat, and when she shivers, it isn't from the cold.

 

Well, okay. Maybe _partially_ from the cold.

 

“You know what would make this better?” Emma eventually mumbles between kisses.

 

“Mmm?”

 

“If I could feel my lips. Or my fingers.”

 

Regina leans back with a laugh, moving her hands down to capture both of Emma's.

 

"You're the one who decided to wait an hour in a subzero windchill."

 

"I thought it was going to be like ten minutes! I didn't realize you'd decided to write the Great American Novel before you came to get me.”

 

“My apologies,” Regina smirks. “Next time I'll give you a timetable, so you don't freeze to death trying to reenact an 80s movie.”

 

“Hey, Sinatra is way better than Peter Gabriel. It was supposed to be romantic!”

 

"And it was.” Regina's eyes twinkle, and she wrinkles her nose at Emma. “Unfortunately, the motive doesn't seem to have slowed the elemental consequences."

 

Emma shivers in response.

 

"Come on." Regina tugs gently on her hand, eyes darkening, backing toward the house. "I can think of somewhere you can warm up your fingers."

 

Her meaningful look only lasts long enough for Emma's brain to short circuit to a blank white fog, before the smolder cracks into a smile. "There's a fire already going in the living room. Henry'll be ecstatic that you're here."

 

Emma narrows her eyes, even as she feels a grin she can't suppress spreading across her face. "That was rude."

 

"There are cookies."

 

"...Okay, you're forgiven. For now."  
  
-

 

And that, my friends, is how Emma Swan (sort of) fell in love with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. A tale for the ages. A love story, if you will, that will go down in history.

 

Or at least in lots and lots of Facebook albums, because Regina likes taking photos almost as much as Emma enjoys giving her Rudolph-themed gifts without informing her as to why.

 

Socks. A sweater. Earrings. A snow globe.

 

One year, it's a little crochet set for every character in the movie, despite the fact that neither of them have ever touched a crochet hook. It turns out Henry has a talent for it, though, so he crafts the tiny figures together, and the next year, they're set out on the mantle for display.

 

It drives Regina crazy that she still isn't in on Emma's little inside joke, so logically Emma gives her nonsensical explanations to make it worse.

 

“It's because your nose gets so red when you're cold.”

 

“Because of how much you love carrots.”

 

“Because of how you growl at me before you have your coffee.”

 

She figures the real revelation will make a good twentieth anniversary gift, if Regina doesn't kill her first.

 

But from the way Regina kisses her even after the coffee comment, she figures the odds are pretty heavily in her favor.

 

**Author's Note:**

> No reindeer were harmed in the making of this fic.


End file.
